


Fourth of July

by saiyanshewolf (gossamerstarsxx)



Series: Shot Through the Heart [11]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Almost Kiss, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Clothing, Dancing, Drunk Dancing, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Feelings, Feels, Flirting, Goodneighbor (Fallout), Humor, Implied Relationships, Intoxication, Jealousy, Karaoke, MacCready Needs A Hug, MacCready is Jealous, Men Crying, Music, Non-Chronological, One Shot Collection, Panic, Party, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Sexual Tension, Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamerstarsxx/pseuds/saiyanshewolf
Summary: It's time for Goodneighbor's annual Fourth of July celebration, and everyone is in attendance. Between all the alcohol, dancing, and karaoke, MacCready's relationship with Antha seems to be moving to the next level...but what happens on the morning of July 5th?
Relationships: Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Sole Survivor
Series: Shot Through the Heart [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/926016
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	Fourth of July

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : Alcohol consumption; drunkenness; mild sexual content; drug use (Hancock); hinted background pairings (Danse x Curie and Piper x Cait); anxiety/panic attack; very minor self-harm; this is LONG.
> 
> **Notes** : This all started because I saw a comic of the FO4 companions doing karaoke, and then it turned into 11k words of everyone getting drunk and MacCready alternately mooning and brooding over Antha. Hancock, Piper, Deacon, Danse, Preston Garvey, Nick, Cait, and Curie all show up, and almost everyone gets a turn at karaoke (I linked the playlist below). The main focus, however, stays with MacCready. By now y'all know how much I enjoy putting him through the emotional wringer, so that shouldn't be a surprise. I also went with my own headcanon here in several places. The most obvious is MacCready not mentioning Duncan to Antha yet. There's also Danse, who I like to think becomes less prejudiced after Blind Betrayal, and the concept of synths themselves; I'm of the headcanon that synths like Danse and Curie are capable of getting drunk (I feel like it would be a little too suspicious if they weren't made in a way that allowed them to get drunk, eat, etc.).
> 
> [Karaoke Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0IjBhv0HooLCd63Ba9Lhod)

# 1.

Hancock's Fourth of July parties are legendary. He has thrown one every year since he's been Mayor, bringing the best and worst of the Commonwealth together in the spirit of celebrating themselves.

MacCready's memories of last year's party are hazy and tinged with a sense of embarrassment he has no desire to place, so when Antha asks him about past Fourth parties in Goodneighbor, he glosses over his own experiences to tell tales on some other folks in town.

"Sounds like it boils down to a lot of drunk people and a lot of fireworks," Antha says at length, arching an eyebrow. "Which, if that's the case, I'm not sure how Goodneighbor is even still standing."

"Hey, nobody has died yet." MacCready shrugs. "Goodneighbor kinda has its own ways of keeping order."

"Oh, yes, so I've seen," Antha replies. "Hancock gut-stabbed someone in front of me before he so much as said hello."

"Sounds like Hancock."

"So what's the dress code for this thing?" Antha asks.

"Beats me. I never thought about getting dressed up for it, but if that's what you feel like doing, knock yourself out."

"I might let Danse and Preston stay at Home Plate," she muses, yawning in the firelight. "Maybe Curie, too. I feel like they'll want to bow out early."

"Still wanna know how the hell you talked Danse and Garvey into coming to Goodneighbor," MacCready mutters.

"I didn't seduce them into it, if that's what you're implying."

"What? Why would I - that's not what I meant," he mutters, even though it's not far from what he had been thinking. "It's just...I mean, they're Danse and Garvey, and Goodneighbor is...Goodneighbor."

"Preston agreed because I've been pestering him to take a night off for ages," Antha replies. "Danse was...I dunno. It makes me nervous, the way he just does what I ask. I almost wish he'd argued with me about it."

"He still depressed about being excommunicated, or whatever the hell the Brotherhood of Steel does?"

Antha nods. "I think having Curie around is helping him some, though."

MacCready raises the brim of his hat, surprised. "Is that a...are they...?"

Antha shrugs. "Curie has a huge crush on him. Hell, half of Sanctuary does, synth or not."

Before MacCready can bite his traitor tongue he hears himself say, "And you?"

Antha snorts laughter, staring into the fire. After a moment she shakes her head.

"Danse is...attractive, sure," she sighs. "But he's always gonna be a soldier, and that's...I did the soldier thing with Nate. I can't do it again. Besides, you know how me and Danse were before - we couldn't be around each other for more than an hour without arguing. Even if he gets better, I don't see that changing much."

"We argued all the time too, to start with."

"Yeah, but arguing with you was at least fun sometimes." Antha frowns and pulls her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Arguing with Danse just makes me sad."

MacCready changes the subject, trying not to be comforted by this response. "Is Strong coming?"

"Hancock bribed him to act as extra security with Ham, so yeah," Antha replies. "What about Deacon, have you heard from him?"

"He'll be there," MacCready says. "I mean, we might not know it, but he'll be there."

"What are the chances I can get you two to do karaoke together?"

MacCready bursts out laughing.

"Slim to none," he answers once he has his breath back, "The heck makes you think I'd sing anyway, let alone with Deacon?"

"You sing along to the radio on my Pip-Boy all the time." She grins at him, settling down against her pack as she prepares to sleep for a while. "You don't sound half bad, either."

MacCready rolls his eyes and adjusts the brim of his hat to shadow his blushing face. "Whatever. Get some sleep, boss. We've still got a week to go before the Fourth."

# 2.

MacCready sits at the crowded Third Rail bar next to Hancock, sipping a Nuka-bourbon and wishing he hadn't left his hat in his room.

"Don't you clean up nice!" Hancock grins, giving MacCready an appraising up-and-down glance; he's already flying high. "Shirt tucked in and everything, who ya gettin' so gussied up for?"

"You're one to talk," MacCready counters, cocking an eyebrow. "I ain't seen your coat this red since the last time you stabbed a man in the street."

"Nice try, but I get fixed up for the Fourth every year," Hancock reminds him. "You, on the other hand, do not. So spill it, who ya tryin' to impress?"

"Anybody who'll buy my drinks," he answers, evasive. "Is it working?"

"Sorry, Creed, ya need tighter jeans if you're tryin' to catch my eye." Hancock winks at him, sliding off his bar stool and fishing a Jet inhaler out of his coat pocket. "Bet Antha's gonna be impressed, though."

He reels away, laughing, leaving MacCready red-faced and mumbling to himself.

In MacCready's opinion, he looks the same as ever, minus his ragged duster. He's wearing the same green button-up he always wears, after all - it's just clean at the moment, and he's rolled both sleeves to his elbows. The only real change are the jeans, a faded black pair he'd worn while he worked for the Gunners. He can tell from the fit he's gained back the weight he'd dropped during that time and then some; they cling to him in all sorts of places he isn't used to having things cling, which makes Hancock's comment a little alarming.

As for whether Antha will be impressed, well...

MacCready scrubs a hand down his red face, wishing all over again that he hadn't left his hat in his room. He orders another drink and tries not to dwell on Hancock's teasing. The only impressive thing about him is his headshot distance, and he knows it.

Not long afterward, the crowd pours in. There are dozens of familiar faces, but MacCready doesn't see anyone worth speaking to until Cait's broad shoulders push through the throng, making space for Curie and Piper to hurry toward the safety of the bar.

He waves them over. Curie's eyes are wide and anxious as she slips into the space between MacCready and the stranger on the next barstool, but she relaxes somewhat when Cait shoves him off. Piper takes the vacated seat while Cait stands behind Curie, signaling Whitechapel Charlie.

"What is it ya want, Curie?" she asks. "Yer white as a sheet."

"I don't...I am not sure, I have never..."

"Vodka tonic," Piper sighs, "Heavy on the tonic. I'll take a gin and tonic. Cait?"

"Whiskey."

MacCready does a double take at Cait's outfit. "Nice suit, Cait. Didn't know ex-Raiders cleaned up so well."

"Aye, shame ya can't say the same for an ex-Gunner." Cait knocks back her whiskey the moment Charlie sets it in front of her, then waves for another.

"I think you look very nice, monsieur," Curie says, as polite as ever.

"You do, actually," Piper says, eyeing him in surprise. "I'm sure Antha will agree, if she ever gets here."

MacCready sits up straighter. "She all right?"

"She's fine," Piper replies, arching an eyebrow. "She stayed behind to, uh...have a chat with Danse. He decided he shouldn't come at the last minute."

MacCready grits his teeth; Piper grins, giving him a knowing look, and he turns away with a scowl.

"Sounds like Danse," he mutters, then changes the subject before he has to acknowledge his own jealousy. "So I take it Antha had something to do with your outfit, Piper? I didn't think that coat of yours came off."

"Could say the same for your hat," Piper answers. "Yeah, she gets excited about clothes, so we let her dress us for the night. She nailed it with Cait and Curie."

MacCready had noticed Cait's suit - an expertly altered tux - but he had paid little attention to Curie, who had been shrinking back toward Cait. She opens up more now, smiling as she shows off a pale pink and white floral dress. There is even a wreath of silk flowers in her short hair. She looks so much like a china doll that MacCready can't help but smile.

"Suits you," he says, and Curie beams at him.

"Merci!" She says, before turning toward Piper. "But Piper, why do you not include yourself? You are so lovely as well!"

Piper rolls her eyes, rubbing the back of her neck. Her halter-style dress matches Cait's tie.

"I feel naked," she grumbles, knocking back her gin and tonic. "I don't care how much ballistic weave she sewed into the lining."

"Fuck sake, here." Cait shrugs out of her suit coat and hands it to Piper, who sighs in relief as she pulls it on. The effect is far more flattering than the dress had been on its own.

As Cait rolls her shirtsleeves to her elbow, Curie lets out a soft gasp, turning toward the door of the Third Rail. The other three turn to look as well; Piper and MacCready both frown, albeit for different reasons.

"Well, there's Danse," she says, "But where's Antha?"

"Should I...I could ask him…?" Curie says, her voice very small.

"I'll go with ya," Cait says, scanning the crowd with hard eyes. "Back in a few, Piper."

Piper waves a hand as Cait leads Curie through the crowd toward Danse. For a moment the two of them sit in silence; MacCready is lost in his own head, wondering why Danse would show up without Antha, wondering who Antha would show up with -

"You're looking a little green, MacCready," Piper says. "Jealous much?"

MacCready scowls and looks away. "Why would I be?"

"Why indeed?"

He rolls his eyes. "Any idea why she'd be late if Danse is already here? She shouldn't be walking to Goodneighbor alone."

"Dunno, unless she met up with Deacon. Nick and Garvey are already here, and we passed Strong at the door with Ham. She probably has Dogmeat with her, at least."

MacCready chooses to ignore Piper's comment about Deacon. "So how many people has she got staying in Home Plate?"

"Everyone crashed there last night except her," Piper answers. "She hardly ever stays there. I think she prefers Goodneighbor. It's basically storage space with a bed at this point. She gave me a key so Nat can go in and read if she wants, since most of what she keeps there are books. And clothes! She's got trunks full of clothes upstairs, plus a bunch of freaky mannequins."

"Really?" MacCready frowns; it's been awhile since he's been in Home Plate. "I don't think I've ever seen her wear anything besides her leather armor and that damn Vault suit."

Piper seems surprised. "She's got more clothes than she knows what to do with. This dress and Curie's were just sitting in a trunk, and she altered them both to fit us within a week. She must have made hers from..."

"Hers...?"

"What, did you think she was gonna show up in full armor after getting me in a dress?" Piper laughs. "She made hers herself, and she looks amazing in it. I'm ready for her to get here just so I can see your face."

MacCready glares at her, sliding off his barstool and turning as if to walk away...only to freeze with his eyes fixed across the room as Antha descends the stairs.

Her dress is blood-red and sleeveless, made from what looks like silk or satin. Either way, the material is shiny and clingy, with a neckline so low that it puts her unzipped Vault suit to shame. The skirt is fitted to her hips, with black vertical lines descending the sides from her waist to a hem that falls mid-thigh. Sheer black stockings cover her legs, the kind with a stark seam up the back, and she wears little black ankle boots with the barest hint of a heel. As she takes another step down, the hem of the dress rides up just enough to reveal the tops of her stockings and the straps of a black garter belt.

It takes three separate attempts before MacCready remembers how to swallow, and several seconds after that for him to remember how to breathe. By the time he has himself under some semblance of control, Antha has already disappeared into the crowd and Piper is laughing as she lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Might wanna close your mouth before you start drooling, buddy," she teases. "See ya later."

He barely hears her speak; his heart seems to have moved into his throat and it is pounding there at an erratic rhythm. Chest heaving, he bolts for the exit, terrified of coming face to face with the woman he's been traveling with for so long.

The air outside is cooler, less oppressive, and MacCready orders another drink from the bartender set up near the street...and two more after that, just for good measure. With a pleasant buzz going, his reaction to Antha seems laughable.

 _It's just 'cause I've never seen her dressed up like that,_ he thinks, wandering back into the Third Rail and patting himself on the back for his newfound rationality. _That's all it is. I'll see her again, and it'll be fine. Like seeing Piper._

As he descends the steps into the main room a glittering smear of red catches his eye, and he turns his head toward the dance floor where Danse is swinging Antha in circles to Uranium Fever.

He turns on his heel and walks back outside with static in his chest and has another two drinks just to forget the sight of Danse's hands on Antha's hips.

The second time he convinces himself that he's under control, he has a little more than a buzz going...and he is also careful not to look at the dance floor until he's safe at Charlie's bar with a new drink in his hand.

After steeling himself with a long swallow of Nuka-bourbon, he risks a glance just in time to witness Antha launching herself into Cait's arms. Cait catches her at the waist and lifts her up above her head, arms straight, laughing as she spins around a few times before easing Antha to her feet.

Antha stumbles a little, giggling into her elbow as she fumbles with one side of her skirt; the black line parts up the middle, revealing pleats of black satin that turn her sheathlike dress into something she can dance in.

"See, Piper, it's easy!" She pulls up the zipper on the other side and accepts a glass of something from Curie. "Just try it!"

Piper rolls her eyes. "Blue, you're about five inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than me."

"Ah, shut it, love," Cait says, grinning like the Raider she used to be and flexing one massive bicep. "I could do this ta fuckin' Danse if I wanted!"

Danse - all six feet, four inches, and two hundred-odd pounds of him - actually laughs, leaning up against the wall near Garvey and Nick with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Let's not test that theory," he says, and MacCready is so stunned to see the man smiling that he forgets he's supposed to be jealous.

Piper rolls her eyes, but a smile is spreading across her face; after a moment she sets her drink on the table next to Nick and lines herself up across from Cait.

"Okay, fine," she says, sounding a little breathless, "But my skirt won't zip down like Blue's, so if anyone tries to peek ya better punch 'em for me."

With a few sprinted steps, Piper leaps into Cait's arms...and Cait catches her, lifting her up and spinning her around so fast that no one sees anything but a blur of blue silk. When Cait lowers her to the ground, they are both so dizzy that they stumble up against the wall, giggling and clutching one another close as the music eases into a slower song.

Danse holds out his hand to Antha; another wave of static surges into MacCready's chest and he almost looks away, but Antha only smiles and shakes her head, holding up a drink that is mostly a glass of ice water before nodding toward the corner where Curie stands against the wall, hands folded in front of her, watching Piper and Cait with dreamy eyes.

Danse turns red and stutters something that MacCready can't understand.

"Danse, just trust me, okay?" Antha murmurs. "Go on."

After a brief whispered argument and a couple deep breaths, Danse follows Antha's advice. When he holds out his hand to Curie her pale face lights up like the sunrise, and Danse, astonished at her acceptance, ushers her onto the floor with a bow.

MacCready is so distracted by this development that he doesn't notice Antha next to him until she nudges his shoulder with hers.

"Ain't they sweet?" she says, grinning at him over the rim of her new vodka tonic.

There is a familiar note of sarcasm in her voice, a good-natured sort of mockery that sounds so much like the Antha he knows - the one who wears leather armor over a reinforced Vault suit and carries five different guns - that his nerves evaporate on the spot.

It is, after all, just Antha.

"So sweet I might be sick," he agrees, and they both dissolve into laughter, leaning against one another and whispering like bad schoolchildren as they observe the budding romances taking place before them.

# 3.

By eleven, MacCready is well on his way past tipsy. He and Antha have danced to just about every song that has played, save for the one time he'd agreed to dance with Deacon just because the jackass bet he wouldn't. Antha had passed that one with Hancock, though they had done more giggling and stumbling than actual dancing; still, when he and Deacon finished without strangling one another, the two of them had both applauded.

After that, MacCready had caught Antha shivering near one of the burning barrels that lined the streets. He'd shrugged out of his shirt and thrown it across her shoulders, making some teasing remark about her running around half-naked; she'd thanked him even as she stuck out her tongue.

Now she wears it over her dress like a robe, insinuating that he may not get it back. He's starting to believe her; in her intoxication she had also admitted to stealing his other clothes on occasion, which explains where his long-sleeved undershirts have gone.

Deacon - who had overheard this conversation the way he overhears everything - sidles up to him afterward, watching Antha weave across the room toward a beckoning Hancock, zipping the sides of her skirt down until it clings to her ass and hips once more.

"You cannot be this oblivious," he mutters. "She's stealing your clothes, MacCready. That's the oldest trick in the book."

"And you couldn't be more obnoxious," MacCready counters, too drunk to consider the implications of what Deacon is suggesting. "Shut up, Deacon."

Deacon shuts up, but Nick replaces him soon afterward.

"She do that often?" He asks, nodding toward the corner where Antha and Hancock are in the midst of plotting something. "Run around in your clothes, I mean. Seems awfully, ah…intimate."

Sweat breaks out across MacCready's forehead; he can ignore Deacon's insinuations, but Nick asking him about Antha feels like being interrogated by her father.

"S-sort of?" His laughter is nervous. "She uh. Well, yknow. She gets…she's cold a lot, and it seemed like the, uh…I mean, she doesn't have a jacket with her so I uh…"

Nick claps him on the back, his body humming a little with the movement. "You're not so bad, merc," he says, and turns back to his conversation with White Chapel Charlie.

MacCready had hoped that would be the end of it, but Garvey finds him next. If Nick is like her father, Garvey is like her older brother.

"She cold again?" He asks, eyeing MacCready with an unreadable expression.

"Er, yeah," he answers. "She…well, she usually is."

"Oh, I know," Garvey replies. "I'm just curious if she had to ask or if you noticed."

"She, uh." He reaches up to adjust a hat that isn't there and threads his fingers through his hair instead. "Well, y'know how she is, she won't just come out and say stuff like that. I just…saw her shivering and, uh…"

He rubs the back of his neck, unable to meet Garvey's eye. They have only met a handful of times, but it's been clear since day one that Garvey doesn't trust him.

_Why would he? I worked for the Gunners._

"So you noticed."

MacCready has no idea what Garvey wants from him; if he was sober, he wouldn't even care. He's not sober, however, and more disturbed than he should be at the idea that anyone might believe him to be capable of hurting Antha.

"I try to watch her back," he says at length, finally meeting Garvey's eyes. "So…yeah. I noticed. I usually do."

A beat passes.

"She thinks the world of you, you know that?" Garvey glances at Antha, gesturing to her with a brief nod. "She's sworn up and down that you're nothing like the people you used to work for. Me, I think nothing is a little too generous."

MacCready says nothing; there's nothing he can say. There's no use defending himself against the truth, and even if there was, there'd be no use trying to explain his time with the Gunners to Preston Garvey.

"But you left," Garvey says. "And that's worth something. Keep watching her back, MacCready. Antha's done a lot of good for the Commonwealth. Maybe she's doing the same for you."

As Garvey turns away, MacCready swallows hard past the tightness in his throat and waves his empty glass at Charlie for a refill.

There's no 'maybe' about it; the only question is whether he deserves it.

# 4.

Time becomes a little fuzzy around midnight. By that point there are only five sober people left in Goodneighbor, and most of them are not, strictly speaking, people at all: Nick, who can't get drunk; Ham, Strong, and Dogmeat, appointed by Hancock to keep the peace, who keep busy corralling the more unruly drunks in the Town House basement.

The vast majority of the crowd has moved outside, creating a block party in the streets. With the crowd thinned out inside, Hancock hops up on the little raised platform of a stage and announces that it is time for karaoke.

MacCready glances over from the bar, curious and more than a little confused. Between his talk with Preston Garvey and Antha disappearing with Hancock, he's been swinging back and forth between self-loathing and knee-jerk jealousy for the better part of an hour.

As the smaller crowd responds, calling out questions and asking what's going on, Hancock waves his combat knife in the air for silence.

"Quiet! Quiet, dammit, do ya want an explanation or not?!"

Everyone settles down, waiting, but rather than explaining the situation, Hancock turns with a drunken flourish and calls out, "Antha! You're up!"

"Shit, already?" Antha pops up from behind the makeshift stage, the sleeves of MacCready's shirt rolled to her elbows. There are runs in her stockings, starting from her knees, and her eyeliner is smudged into shadows beneath her eyes. She wobbles a little on her heels, groping for Hancock's hand, and as he helps her climb up onstage, she dissolves into a fit of giggling.

"All right!" She says at length, "All right, fine, okay - so - karaoke. Yeah."

She accepts the drink Hancock gives her with a nod of thanks, knocking back half of it in one go before shaking her head like Dogmeat and looking back out at the crowd.

"So, most of you know I'm pre-war," she says, much to MacCready's surprise. "The details don't much matter, but a few months ago I realized it seemed like half the music I knew from my time was just…poof. Disappeared! Then Hancock asked me to do him a favor - find a karaoke machine for the Third Rail. And when I found it, I also found about a thousand holotapes full of music from my time that probably haven't seen the light of day since before the bombs fell. So, I brought those back too…with, uh, more than a little help from the Commonwealth's best sharpshooter," she adds, tilting her head toward MacCready with a wink.

Taken off guard, MacCready only holds up his drink in a mock salute..

"Anyway, my point is, we found a whole damn library of music that most of you have probably never heard," Antha continues. "And if we pop the holotapes into this machine back here, it cuts the vocals from the recording and displays the lyrics on screen, leaving just the music, so that anyone can sing the song. It's pretty fun. But since no one but me and Hancock have had a chance to go through the holotapes and listen to 'em, we're gonna help you get used to the whole karaoke thing by picking some songs and singers. Just so nobody gets turned off by somebody's awful singing voice right off the bat, we'll start with Magnolia, okay?"

There's a flurry of sound; most of it is excitement, some of it is skepticism, but overall the crowd seems to be interested. Travis Miles comes up beside Antha as she searches through the boxes of holotapes, leaning down and whispering something to her; Antha nods, grinning, making some reply that MacCready can't hear, and he turns his attention back to his drink, wondering at the wisdom of trying to drown his irrational jealousy in alcohol.

Before he even lifts his glass again, however, Piper slides up on the stool next to him, giving him a knowing, exasperated look.

"Stop it," she says, and MacCready scowls.

"Stop what?" He mutters.

"If you're jealous, do something about it," she says, rolling her eyes. "But even if you don't, brooding over here by yourself isn't helping. C'mon. I'm putting you next to Deacon, that ought to keep you occupied."

MacCready sputters in surprise as Piper grabs him by the collar and drags him off his barstool with surprising strength, steering him toward a crowded table like an overbearing older sister. True to her word, she pushes him down next to Deacon before sitting next to Cait.

MacCready is a little annoyed with how well Piper had clocked him. Sure enough, he and Deacon are picking at one another like schoolchildren within minutes, drinks in hand, arguing about everything from which of them is the better sniper to the exact shade of green that makes up Strong's skin. They're both so distracted that neither of them notice when Magnolia takes the stage until the strange new song starts to play.

Everyone falls quiet and looks up as Magnolia's familiar, gorgeous voice pulls them through the unfamiliar words.

_Superstar_

_Where ya from, how's it going?_

_I know you_

_Got a clue, what ya doin'?_

_You can play brand new to_

_All the other chicks out here_

_But I know what you are_

_What you are, baby…_

As soon as Magnolia moves into the chorus, MacCready can tell he will have this one stuck in his head long after he's sober.

Aside from the song being catchy as hell, Magnolia performs as if she's known it her whole life, even pointing and winking at Travis as she purrs _Daddy-O, ya got the swagger of a champion / Too bad for you, ya just can't find the right companion…_

The song ends to thunderous applause and more than a few wolf-whistles. Magnolia blows them all a kiss before retreating to the bar for a glass of water, clearly having enjoyed herself.

"Whatcha guys think?" Hancock asks, swinging up onto the stage as he tucks a Jet inhaler into his pocket.

They all applaud again; several people volunteer to try it out next, but Hancock waves his knife again, signaling for quiet.

"Keep your pants on, we got all night!" He says. "Hey, Sunshine, how about I pick the song and you pick the singer, yeah?"

Antha glances up from the table, cocking her head at Hancock as if she doesn't particularly trust him, but the grin on her face shows she's up for whatever mischief he has in mind.

"You're the mayor," she says, dancing in place a little as Hancock hops down from the stage to go through the holotapes. After a moment or two he hands her one, grinning; Antha takes it and quirks her lips, gazing out across the crowd as if sizing them up.

"Danse," she says at length, "Wanna give it a shot?"

Danse flushes bright red. "What, you expect me to follow that performance?"

"Somebody has to," Antha answers. "And look at it this way, even if you're terrible, no one here would dare tell you to your face."

Danse covers his face with one hand, groaning, but Curie places a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"I do not think you will be terrible, monsieur!" She says brightly.

Danse glances at her through his fingers for a moment, then heaves a sigh and gets to his feet, weaving a little as he steps onstage, peering down at the computer screen as the song loads.

"Titanium…?" He winces, glancing down at Antha as if the song title hurts him somehow.

"It's not like that," she says, "Just trust me, it's a good one."

Danse sighs and rolls his shoulders, his cheekbones still flushed faintly pink as he nods to Hancock and folds his hands behind his back in the resting military posture that had been drilled into him by the Brotherhood.

The music comes in, slow and unfamiliar, followed by Danse's voice. He feels out the lyrics, hesitant and a little out of key:

_You shout it out_

_But I can't hear a word you say_

_I'm talking loud not saying much_

_I'm criticized but all your bullets ricochet_

_You shoot me down, but I get up…_

It's a slower song than the one before it, more somber, but although he has to find his way into the right key, something about it seems to fit Danse's voice - seems to fit Danse.

_Cut me down_

_But it's you who has further to fall…_

Danse's shoulders relax somewhat; his eyes flicker toward Antha, who gives him a brief smile and cocks an eyebrow.

_I'm bulletproof nothing to lose_

_Fire away, fire away_

_Ricochet, you take your aim_

_Fire away, fire away_

_You shoot me down but I won't fall_

_I am titanium…_

Danse's voice is stronger now, bringing the emotion in the words to life. The song was likely written for the soldiers in Power Armor - the parallels are clear, and that fits with Danse, true, but there's something else underneath it, some note of betrayal that, given Danse's past with the Brotherhood, hits just a little differently.

_You shoot me down but I won't fall_

_I am titanium_

_I am titanium…_

The music fades out; as the crowd applauds Danse jumps, as if he wasn't expecting such a positive response. He gathers himself with some effort and gives a polite bow before hurrying back to his seat and his drink, smiling weakly at Curie as she beams and claps her hands.

"Well that was…uncanny," Deacon mumbles.

"Oh yeah." MacCready drains his glass. "Kinda gave me chills."

"What do ya wanna bet she's gonna nail everyone like that?" Deacon asks.

"Shut up," MacCready mumbles, somewhat terrified. "If you don't talk about it, it won't happen to us."

It doesn't happen to everyone, but it happens to most of them.

The biggest surprise is Cait, who stomps onto the makeshift stage glaring out at the audience as if she'd like to bust all their heads with her barbed wire bat. Yet when she opens her mouth and starts to sing, even Magnolia's jaw hits the floor.

_This is the part when I say I don't want ya_

_I'm stronger than I've been before_

_This is the part when I break free_

_'Cause I can't resist it no more…_

Her voice is lower than Magnolia's, torchy and smoldering and almost angry. She seems to scowl as she sings, as if she's directing the words at someone else, someone that deserves them.

_I only want to die alive_

_Never by the hands of a broken heart_

_I don't wanna hear you lie tonight_

_Now that I've become who I really am…_

Her voice is mesmerizing. MacCready can't form a coherent thought until the last note fades out, and he isn't the only one.

Stunned silence reigns for ten full seconds before Antha whispers, "Holy shit, Cait," and applauds.

The rest of the room joins in until almost everyone is on their feet. Cait blinks at them, bewildered, then tries to scowl as she waves them off and heads back to her seat next to Piper. By the time she drops and grabs her drink, however, there is a faint smile on her lips.

A brief interlude of chaos ensues, with everyone exclaiming over Cait's performance and the new songs they've heard.

"Two for two," Deacon observes, and MacCready tells him again to shut up.

Antha is over at the next table, talking to Preston Garvey, who shakes his head even as he grins. They seem to argue back and forth for a moment until Garvey finally rolls his eyes and allows Antha to drag him to his feet.

She hops up onto the little stage in front of him, drink in hand, color high in her cheeks.

"A few of you have been asking, and yes, the karaoke machine will work with just about any holotape," she says, holding up a copy of Sixty Minute Man. "I've volunteered Preston here to demonstrate."

She crouches down, knees together, her zipped-down skirt riding high on her thighs, exposing the tops of her stockings and a long knife sheath. MacCready stares, distracted, until he feels Deacon and Piper's eyes boring into him and decides his drink is more interesting.

"Little on the nose, don't you think, General?" Garvey asks, as the first notes play.

Antha sticks out her tongue. "Just shut up and sing. That's an order, or whatever."

Garvey laughs, glances down at the screen, and begins to sing.

He doesn't need to follow along for long - all of them know Sixty Minute Man by heart - but although it's a familiar song, something about Garvey singing it makes it unique. He has an excellent voice, low and smooth, and it lends itself well to the suggestive lyrics. Maybe a little too well, even; most of the women in the room and not a few of the men watch Garvey sing with hectic blooms of red in their cheeks and stars in their eyes.

It's a short song, and as it ends, there are a couple of wolf-whistles. Garvey bursts into laughter again, bows, and heads back to the table he's been sharing with Nick for most of the night.

"That was the last thing I would've expected out of Preston Garvey," Deacon muses, applauding along with everyone else, "And it still fits so well it's creepy."

"Don't remind me," MacCready mutters.

"What, are you worried she picked that one from personal experience?"

"Deacon," MacCready sighs, pushing back from the table to go get a drink he shouldn't have, "Shut up."

Whatever Deacon's response is, MacCready ignores it. As Charlie fixes his drink, he reaches up to adjust a hat that isn't there, his chest a tangled confusion of irrational jealousy over Antha, less irrational irritation with Deacon, and that, jealousy and irritation aside, he's enjoying himself again.

He lingers at the bar, unwilling to go back to sniping back and forth with Deacon just yet, when he hears Piper's voice.

"Blue, this is a terrible idea, you know I can't sing!"

Antha's only response is laughter, and the laughter only seems to spread. Piper is every bit as terrible as Cait is amazing. After less than a minute of meandering through every key in existence, she gives up and points at Cait, who stifles her snickering well enough to take over the rest of the song.

_Don't wanna be an American idiot_

_One nation controlled by the media_

_Information Age of hysteria_

_It's calling out to idiot America…_

It's not a bad fit for Piper, who has made a living out of her belief that people are entitled to the truth. Still, MacCready ignores Deacon's raised eyebrow, settling into his seat as Piper and Cait leave the stage.

While the rest of the table gives Piper a good-natured hard time, MacCready sees Antha slide into a booth next to Curie. Danse sits across from them, and when Curie shakes her head and hides her face in her hands, he glances up at Antha and says something. She nods, reaching out to pull Curie's hands away from her face, and a moment later Curie gives her a nervous smile and nods.

Antha takes her hand and leads her up onto the stage while Hancock swaps out the holotapes.

"Two for one," Antha says to the crowd, and flashes a grin before knocking back the rest of her drink and tossing the empty glass to Hancock.

"I bet Curie didn't want to be up there by herself," Piper whispers. "And given what just happened to me, I can't say I blame her."

_Yellow diamonds in the light_

_And we're standing side by side_

_As your shadow crosses mine_

_What it takes to come alive…_

It's obvious that Antha is curbing the volume of her voice; she's there for moral support, not performing, and to start with it's support that Curie needs. Her voice is soprano, and while it's clear and sweet, it isn't very strong. She finds her way into it about halfway through, however, and by the end MacCready is certain that Antha isn't doing much but mouthing the words.

Curie hurries back to the booth the moment the last note fades away, blushing and smiling furiously under the applause. Before MacCready can see Danse's reaction, however, Hancock calls his name.

"Can't wait to see this," Deacon says, nudging an elbow into MacCready's ribs as he gets to his feet.

"Shut up." MacCready knocks back the rest of his drink and crosses toward the little table near the makeshift stage, interrupting what seems to be a whispered argument between Antha and Hancock.

"…bet's a bet, Sunshine."

"You're doing this on purpose!"

"Damn right." Hancock turns away from Antha with a grin, hitting his Jet inhaler and hooking an arm around MacCready's shoulders.

"I picked a song," he explains, "But Antha can't seem to decide which one of us should sing it. So I bet her you'd be willin' to do a little duet with me, Creed."

"And I bet you wouldn't," Antha says, insistent. "I wasn't going to make you sing anything tonight, Mac, I swear."

MacCready glances between the two of them, one eyebrow arched. If he was sober, he'd take Antha at her word and tell Hancock to go it alone; he doesn't much like being in the spotlight, especially when he could potentially make a fool out of himself.

He isn't sober, however, and something about the high color in Antha's cheeks and the way she's glaring daggers at Hancock piques his curiosity.

"And if I say I'll do it?" He asks.

Hancock's answering grin is broad and devilish. Antha makes a sound of frustration and swipes at his jacket as if to drag him away, but Hancock laughs and dances away, pulling MacCready along with him.

"If ya do it," Hancock whispers, "She has to sing whatever I tell her to, just like she's been doin' to everybody else all night."

"What have you got in mind?"

Hancock winks at him. "Oh, it'll be good, Creed. Promise."

MacCready glances at Antha. She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, worrying her lower lip with her teeth; the moment their eyes meet, she flushes red and glances away.

MacCready's curiosity trumps his self-consciousness.

"Let's do it," he says, and Hancock laughs aloud as he pulls MacCready after him onto the low stage.

Antha glares at them both as she crouches down to pop the holotape into the machine. She says something, but MacCready misses it; he's too distracted by the sight of her garters lying against bare thigh.

"Pop yer eyes back in, Creed," Hancock whispers. "Showtime."

MacCready shakes his head and turns. At the sight of the crowd his throat seems to seize up, and for a moment he considers fleeing offstage, curiosity be damned.

When the music begins, however, most of his stage fright bleeds away. He glances down at the screen and has just enough time to read the song title and artist: Ain't No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant.

 _Deacon was right,_ he thinks, and as the words crawl across the screen, he and Hancock begin to sing.

_I was walking down the street when out the corner of my eye_

_I saw a pretty little thing approaching me…_

Hancock's singing voice is fascinating - low, rough, somewhere between guttural and gravelly. The best he can say for himself is that he's on key, but his voice is higher than Hancock's and the combination isn't bad, at least to his own ears.

_Oh there ain't no rest for the wicked_

_Money don't grow on trees_

_I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed_

_There ain't nothing in this world for free_

_Oh no, I can't slow down, I can't hold back_

_Though you know, I wish I could_

_Oh no there ain't no rest for the wicked_

_Until we close our eyes for good…_

He's grinning, close to laughter; Hancock hooks an arm around his shoulders again and MacCready returns the gesture, wondering what he'd been so worried about earlier. This is fun.

_I saw a preacher man in cuffs, he'd taken money from the church_

_He'd stuffed his bank account with righteous dollar bills_

_But even still I can't say much because I know we're all the same_

_Oh yes we all seek out to satisfy those thrills…_

MacCready glances up just in time to see Deacon standing near the staircase that leads toward the exit. He lowers his sunglasses and winks; as MacCready and Hancock draw toward the end of the song, MacCready flicks him off, knowing that Deacon is bailing out before Antha can pin him down to sing.

_Oh no there ain't no rest for the wicked_

_Until we close our eyes for good!_

He and Hancock reel off the stage to laughter and applause, both of them giggling like idiots. Charlie has fresh drinks ready for them both, and MacCready downs half his glass almost as soon as it's in his hand.

"Thanks for that," Hancock says, still grinning. "Now once I get Antha up there, ya listen close, all right?"

"Sure, but what for?"

"The lyrics." Hancock hits his Jet inhaler and winks. "She's said this one makes her think of you more times than I can count."

With that, he turns and weaves back toward Antha.

MacCready watches him go, draining his drink and gesturing for another. Charlie gives it to him, and he makes his way back to the table and settles into his seat.

After a brief, whispered argument (and much giggling on Hancock's part) Antha throws up her hands and stalks toward the bar. Charlie pours her two shots of vodka, which she knocks back in rapid succession before heaving a sigh and taking the stage.

"This is what I get," she says, her lips quirked into a rueful smirk. "Guess I deserve it. The song is called Devil's Backbone, by the Civil Wars. And let the record show I'm singing it under duress," she adds, giving Hancock a pointed look as he pops the holotape into the machine.

"Sure ya are, Sunshine," Hancock says, "Sure ya are."

Antha sighs again as the music fades in. Her gaze drifts toward MacCready; their eyes meet, and he sees her throat work as she swallows. When the music begins she tears her eyes away and stares straight forward, her cheeks flushed pink.

A moment later, she sings.

_Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done?_

_I've fallen in love with a man on the run_

_Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I'm begging you please_

_Don't take that sinner from me_

_Oh don't take that sinner from me…_

MacCready swallows with an effort, remembering Hancock's words: _She's said this one reminds her of you more times than I can count._

 _What does that mean?_ he thinks, his breath shallow, his heart racing. _What does that even mean?_

_He's raised on the edge of the devil's backbone_

_Oh I just wanna take him home…_

It's a beautiful song, and despite Antha's claims of being under duress, there is a haunting, pleading note in her voice that suits the music and lyrics perfectly.

_Oh Lord, Oh Lord, he's somewhere between_

_A hangman's knot, and three mouths to feed_

_There wasn't a wrong or a right he could choose_

_He did what he had to do_

_Oh he did what he had to do…_

MacCready listens, transfixed, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

_Give me the burden, give me the blame_

_I'll shoulder the load, and I'll swallow the shame_

_Give me the burden, give me the blame_

_How many, how many Hail Marys is it gonna take?_

_Don't care if he's guilty, don't care if he's not_

_He's good and he's bad and he's all that I've got_

_Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I'm begging you please_

_Don't take that sinner from me_

_Oh don't take that sinner from me…_

After the last notes fade out, silence hangs in the air. Antha opens her eyes and glances at him, her face flushed, her chest heaving. MacCready gazes back at her, trying to remember how to breathe.

Applause shatters the quiet. Antha snatches her eyes away, looking out across the crowd and plastering a bright, nervous smile across her face. She mimes a curtsy and dissolves into laughter before hurrying offstage to the bar.

Before he can make himself think better of it, MacCready gets up and goes to her, waving for another drink.

"Pretty song," he says, marveling that he can speak at all, let alone so easily; his heart is still hammering against his ribs. "Why didn't you wanna sing it?"

Antha glances up at him with wide green eyes, then looks away, spinning her ring with her thumb.

"Oh, well, you know," she says, her voice unsteady, "It's a little…sad, I guess."

"Nah." MacCready takes his drink from Charlie, nodding his thanks. "Not to me."

"Oh…? Oh! Well, um." She smiles into her drink, flushing pink. "That's…I'm glad."

A brief silence follows; MacCready opens his mouth to speak without the slightest idea what will come out, but when Antha turns toward him he seems to forget how words work. She is so beautiful that it hurts, with her radstorm eyes and her scarred, freckled face, with the hectic blush of alcohol in her cheeks and her blinding pre-war smile.

"Mac? You okay?"

He shakes himself out of his thoughts, rubbing the back of his neck with a shamefaced grin.

"Sorry, boss. What did you say?"

"I asked if Deacon ran away," she says, nodding out toward the crowd. "I was planning to make him sing Secret Agent Man."

MacCready snorts laughter. "That's a song? Seriously?"

"By Johnny Rivers," Antha answers. "Oh well. There's always next time. Come on, let's see what's going on outside. I need some air, I think."

As she turns toward the exit she takes his hand, and MacCready laces his fingers into hers without a second thought.

# 5.

By 2AM the crowded street has thinned, but for most of Goodneighbor the party's going strong. MacCready's thoughts have become somewhat of a blur; he remembers coming outside with Antha not long after she left the stage, and he remembers having to grab her around the waist to keep her from stumbling over the uneven concrete just beyond the door of the Third Rail. She had dissolved into a fit of giggling, leaning against him and clutching his arm. After that, they'd gotten drinks again, and that's where he loses the thread.

He realizes that he should slow down and uses the last of his common sense to tap out of a chugging contest with Cait, who reels back into Piper's arms with a cackle of victory, her tie bound around her forehead.

"Dunno why I bother, you always win," he mutters, wiping his goatee on the shoulder of his t-shirt. "Where's Antha? She don't try to drink me to death."

"She wandered off with Hancock around the time you agreed to going a fourth round," Piper says. "C'mon, Cait, up, not all of us have biceps like yours..."

MacCready turns away, frowning to himself, but he doesn't have to look for long. Hancock and Antha are standing near one alleyway, laughing like lunatics as a stoned-out-of-his-mind Hancock tries to figure out how to roll the sleeves of MacCready's green shirt up past Antha's wrists. He catches MacCready's eye and waves him over, gesturing to Antha in exasperation.

"It's your shirt, you figure it out," he says, hitting a Jet inhaler. "She got cold and unrolled 'em and now she says they're in the way."

"They are!" Antha sticks out her tongue, holding her arms toward MacCready, who can't help but grin as he rolls the cuffs up a few inches past her wrists.

Hancock shakes his head. "See that? Ya ain't exactly a giant, Creed, but she looks like a kid playin' dress up."

"Oh, shut up." Antha rolls her eyes, pressing one now-free hand over the swell of her breasts as she bends down to pick up her drink from the cracked pavement by her feet. "I'm just short, dammit. If I tried to button it over these things I wouldn't look like a kid for long."

Hancock's gaze shifts toward MacCready, a devilish grin spreading across his leathery face.

"Ain't touchin' that one," he says, and wanders off into the rest of the crowd.

"Well, since ya can't button it," MacCready says, "Does that mean I'm gonna get it back?"

Antha glances up at him, one eyebrow arched.

"Do you want it back?" she asks sweetly, letting it fall off one shoulder.

"Eventually, yes," he answers, grinning. "You can't keep stealin' all my damn clothes, I ain't got that many to begin with."

"I only take them 'cause I need them more than you." She giggles, sways, loses her balance and stumbles against his chest. "Y'know. 'Cause I'm cold."

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna be cold too when I'm runnin' around the wasteland naked," he answers, wrapping an arm around her back to steady her. "Now are ya gonna give me my shirt back?"

"Nope," she answers. "If y'want it back ya better take it!"

"Oh, that right?" He laughs again, sneaking his free hand beneath the collar of his shirt and pushing it back from her shoulder. "How hard could that be?"

Antha grins up at him, her eyes bright with mischief.

"Let's find out," she says, and ducks out of his arms, laughing aloud as she darts into the remnants of the crowd with far more grace than her earlier stumbling would suggest.

"Dammit, boss, come back here!"

She kites him all the way to the Rexford. He nearly catches her when she forgets which way the front door opens, but she figures it out just in time, falling into the lobby with a shriek of laughter and snatching the tail of his shirt out of his grip.

The stairs present an obstacle for them both. MacCready can still see straight, but he doesn't trust his balance enough to risk running flat-out. Antha has trouble with her low heels, and risks pausing on a landing to toe them off, hooking her fingers into them and fleeing up the next flight with her hand plastered over her mouth to hold the giggles in.

He catches her in the hall between their rooms just as she pulls a Bobby pin out of her hair to pick the lock on her door.

"No ya don't," he says, dragging her back against his chest with one arm and lifting her up off her feet. "I'll never get my damn shirt back if you get it in your room."

"Mac!" Antha drops both her shoes and the Bobby pin to grab at his arm, half-shrieking and half-giggling. "You're - dammit, Mac, this dress is way too short for this!"

"Is it? I can't see a thing," he teases. "Well, nothing down there, anyway. Up here's kind of another story."

"Robert Joseph MacCready, are you looking at my tits?"

"Will you give me my shirt back if I say no?"

Antha laughs. "Touché. No, I don't think I will."

"Then I guess I'll take it off you myself."

Antha shivers as he speaks, grabbing his forearm tight, nails pressing into his skin.

"I'd like to see you try," she answers.

The next few seconds blur together in his head; he drops her to her feet with his free hand gripping the tail of his shirt, but Antha twists away somehow, snatching it out of his grip. She loses her balance and laugh-shrieks, grabbing his t-shirt to steady herself and throwing him off balance in turn.

Antha's back slams hard into his door. MacCready reels forward and stops himself from faceplanting into the wood with his forearms, but the rest of him still winds up pressed tight against Antha's body.

A beat passes as their eyes meet, and a heavy, heart-pounding intensity bleeds into the air around them, until their breathlessness has nothing to do with laughter.

MacCready thinks of moving away and doesn't.

"Gotcha," he says at length, letting his hands drop to Antha's hips and tangle in the tails of his shirt.

"So you do," Antha murmurs, the faint blush the alcohol had left in her cheeks deepening to red. She slips her hands down to his waist, curling her fingers into the sides of his t-shirt and pulling him closer.

The few pathways in MacCready's mind that aren't swimming in bourbon light up like neon, informing him of just how close he and Antha are, from her upturned face a breath away from his own, to the soft press of her breasts against his chest, to her hips pinned beneath his.

His cock flexes, pushing against his fly; Antha sucks in a small, sharp breath, her eyes dropping to his lips as she grabs his shirt tighter, pulls him closer.

MacCready's face floods with heat and he hears himself before he even realizes he's speaking.

"Do you...wanna come in, or...?"

Antha hesitates, still gazing at his lips; at length she drags her eyes back to his. Her throat works, and she gives him a nervous smile.

"I...I want to," she whispers. "Believe me, I really, really want to. But...I can't, Mac. Not...not tonight."

Before he has the chance to back off, Antha drops her hands and hooks her fingers into his belt loops, pulling him tight against her body and rocking her hips until he sucks in his breath, grinding against her out of pure reflex.

She bites her lip, and MacCready thinks he might die.

"Ask me again when you're sober," she says. "When we're both sober."

"Yeah," he mumbles, dazed. "Yeah, s-sorry..."

"Don't be." She swallows hard, pulling her hands away from his belt loops and placing them around his wrists before gently pushing him away. "Believe me, don't be."

He backs away without hesitation, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. They gaze at one another for a moment, both red-faced and nervous.

Antha drops her eyes first, finger combing through her hair and mumbling an awkward good night as she slips past him toward her own room, pausing only to grab her shoes and Bobby pin.

MacCready doesn't answer; he is already fleeing to his own room, and it isn't until he locks the door behind himself that he realizes Antha is still wearing his shirt.

# 6.

The letter comes the next morning.

Daisy almost breaks his door down knocking. The handmade envelope she thrusts into his hands has **URGENT - ROBERT JOSEPH MACCREADY - GOODNEIGHBOR - COMMONWEALTH** scrawled on it in unfamiliar handwriting.

Any hint of a hangover evaporates under the icy dread that washes over him as he reads those words.

"Come tell me," Daisy says, and she squeezes his hand before walking out the door and closing it behind herself.

MacCready can't think - doesn't want to think, doesn't want to compound the terror he already feels with speculation. Hands shaking, he sits down on the edge of his bed, breaks the seal, and pulls out a folded sheet of paper.

Nausea rises in his throat, and it has nothing to do with how much he drank the night before.

He unfolds the paper to reveal a wall of text - the first line is set apart, as well as a small paragraph toward the end, but it is the first line that catches his eye.

In big, clear block letters, it reads:

_**DUNCAN IS ALIVE.** _

The vise around his chest eases a little...but only a little. He braces himself, and reads on.

_Arc said to put that first, so I did, but nothing else is good news. I hate having to be the one to tell you this when you don't know me from a nightstalker, especially since being the messenger has gotten me shot once already, but here goes._

_Long story short: Arya and Butch were paid to take out a bigshot Raider that took back Evergreen Mills awhile ago. The Raider is dead, but no one's seen or heard from A &B since, and the rest of the Raiders are raising hell in retaliation. And they rose it here. Literally started a fire. There were too goddamn many, and the flames were closing in from every side. Even with A&B we wouldn't have had a chance. Arc carried Duncan and as much of his meds and research as he could shove in a bag with three seconds' notice, and I covered our retreat._

_We're hidden somewhere safe now, but Duncan is in shock and Arc is worried he might relapse._

_I'm not gonna lie to you, we're in pretty damn dire straits. Duncan is the priority - A &B said as much when they left. So, much as it hurts me to write this and much as I know it's gonna hurt you to read it, we gotta move forward like A&B ain't coming back._

_They never said much about the cure, just that you'd gotten wind there might be one in the Commonwealth and had just about gotten yourself killed three times trying to find out more. I don't want you to die before I meet the father of the coolest kid in the world, but if there's anyone out there willing to help you get past the ferals that almost took you out, now's the time to try. Arc was close as hell, but he lost a lot of work and supplies in the fire._

(There are several lines of illegible scribbled-out words.)

_Shit, man, I'm no good at this. I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry. I'm trying my best to do the right thing here, but I don't want to be insensitive either. I know you're probably losing your mind right about now. From what I understand you left Duncan with A &B cause they were as good as family, and now A&B are missing and your kid's stuck with two random assholes from the other side of the country that you've never even laid eyes on. I can't imagine how terrifying that is. Don't want to. But I swear to you: **Duncan might not be our kid, but until we can put him back in your arms, we're gonna protect him like he is.**_

_And that...well, it means some scary shit. It means that if you can't get the cure, or if he relapses before we hear from you, we're gonna take him west with us. If we wanna keep him alive, we won't have a choice. We will bring him back to you afterward, all the way to the Commonwealth if that's what it takes, but we will not let this kid die_.

_I know you're still scared, and I don't blame you. I won't blame you if you take off for the Capital today, but if you do, I can't promise we'll be here. If anything Arya said about me ever made a good impression, please listen to me when I say the best thing for you to do right now is find out about that cure._

_There's not much I can say that'll make you trust us the way you did A &B. But if it helps, Arcade is a goddamn genius, and I'm...okay, well, I'm not. Not by a long shot. But I am a goddamn courier. Getting important cargo from point A to point B is my specialty, and I am hard as hell to kill._

_I've gotta go. Send your replies to the same address as usual. I'm not saying where we're holed up just in case, but I'll find the right caravan._

_We'll keep you updated as best we can._

_\- Kieran_

Underneath this, written in a different hand, is a postscript.

_PS: Kieran sells himself short, as usual. Please rest assured that Duncan is in capable hands. I can handle the medical side of things, yes, but it's Kieran who makes Duncan laugh even though he is sick and frightened, and Kieran who had the tact to explain what likely happened to Arya and Butch in terms appropriate for a six-year-old. I'm a good doctor, but Kieran is the cult of personality responsible for reshaping the entire political atmosphere of the Mojave Wasteland, and he's not exactly unaccustomed to danger. Until we give your son back to you, Kieran will keep him safe, and I will keep him as healthy as I can. Best - Arcade Israel Gannon_

Seconds pass, long, interminable seconds in which MacCready's mind seems to fill itself with a thick, rumbling stormcloud, and the rising thunder soon drowns out all rational thought.

He thinks he may be screaming, or sobbing, but he can't hear himself; the letter is on the floor and he is staring at his palms and there are tears landing on his skin, glinting in the morning light that filters in from the threadbare window curtain.

His mind blurs, and time skips forward.

His knuckles are bleeding and there are hanks of his own hair woven through his fingers, his jaw aches and he thinks he must be clenching his teeth; he's on his feet, across the room, the oil lamp is in shards on top of his dresser and the smell of kerosene is thick in the air.

Thoughts break through the rumbling darkness in his head like flashes of lightning.

_My fault._

It hurts; the pain courses through him, envelopes him.

_Waited too long._

He leans on the dresser, nails digging deep into the wood, shoulders trembling, chest tight and hot.

"Goddammit," he whispers, because the situation warrants it, because it's a joke, isn't it, he isn't a better person, a better person would have done something, anything...

_No!_

MacCready grits his teeth until it hurts, glaring down at his bloody knuckles and shaking hands.

"I can still do something now," he hisses to himself. "I can try again, I can do better..."

The thick, pale scars along his bare arms seem to mock him.

"Help," he mumbles, "The letter - get help..."

_From who? Antha? So she can die helping your son before she's ever reunited with her own?_

Guilt eats into his chest, rising up his throat like acid.

 _Taking,_ he thinks, tears coursing down his face as he curls his hands into fists. _Always taking, Arya and Butch dead and they never even had their own child, too busy raising yours after raising you, now strangers are willing to risk their lives on a cross-country trip for your son and you can't even get past a few feral ghouls on your own, you worthless, selfish son of a bitch!_

Bright, stinging pain bites into his skin as his knuckles split open against the surface of the dresser. A sob wrenches its way out of his throat and he lets it come, knowing he can't stop it.

It hurts to cry like this, hurts way down deep in his chest, and the pain robs him of breath until he's choking on his own tears. He reels backward, sitting down hard on the foot of the bed and hunching over his knees, hugging himself, sobbing, shaking, and for a long, black stretch of time the pain consumes him whole.

When he opens his eyes again, Antha is there, kneeling on the floor in front of him, hair in disarray, smudged remnants of last night's eyeliner beneath bloodshot eyes, wearing ragged jeans and his shirt from the night before with a few haphazard buttons done up.

"Hey," she says softly, reaching up to touch his face. "What's wrong, Mac? I almost broke the door down knocking, I had to break the lock. Talk to me, okay?"

He tries.

He tries, but something has broken in his mind, as if his grief has fried the pathway between his brain and mouth. The words come, but they don't come in a way that makes sense. At length he gives up and nods his head toward his duster; Antha gets to her feet and brings it to him, sitting down beside him on the foot of the bed.

MacCready reaches into the inside pocket and pulls out a stack of paper - letters, drawings, everything. Those from past years are neatly folded and bound with string to keep them flat. He shuffles the bundles into the correct order, placing the oldest on top and the letter from Kieran on the bottom.

Hands shaking, he gives them to her.

"You...want me to read them?" Antha asks, hesitant; she has seen how careful he is with his letters, though she has never asked about them. "Is it too hard to talk?"

MacCready nods. The gut-wrenching sobs have passed; the pain that sits with him now is deeper, heavier. His heart hurts, and there is a cruel voice in his head that is all too eager to blame and berate him for what he's allowed to happen.

Antha slides closer and leans against his shoulder, as if to comfort him without invading too much of his space. "Okay, Mac. I'm right here, though, all right?"

He nods again, pushing back against her for a moment before hunching down over his knees again. As he closes his eyes, he feels the movement of Antha's body as she unties the string, hears the crinkling of paper as she unfolds the first letter.

With some effort, he bends most of his focus on Antha, forcing himself to track her every subtle movement, to count each slow and even breath she takes. It helps, a little; he has to start over twice, when the shame and fear get the better of him, but by the time Antha says his name, he has regained some semblance of rationality.

He sits up and opens his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath as he prepares himself for her questions: _Why didn't you tell me? Do you need my help?_

Except Antha doesn't ask questions.

MacCready looks up at her only to find a radstorm burning in her eyes.

"I tied them back up for you. Thank you for trusting me with them," she says, and though her voice is gentle, there is an odd intensity beneath it.

She places the bundle of letters in his hands and gets to her feet, turning to face him and slipping between his knees, reaching for him, sliding her hands up along his jaw and sweeping errant tears off his scruffy cheeks with her thumbs.

MacCready holds his breath as he stares up into her terrifying green eyes.

"I'll be right back, RJ," she says softly. "Promise."

With that, she kisses his forehead and walks out of the room.

MacCready shivers; the touch of her lips was a comfort he hadn't expected, but something about her eyes leaves him feeling shaken.

Her intervention had, at least, reminded him how to cope with his overwhelming emotions. He gets to his feet, dizzy and exhausted from so much crying after such a long night, but determined to keep his mind in the present moment at least until Antha comes back.

He passes the next little while cleaning up the aftermath of his outburst: putting the letters back in their place, cleaning up shards of glass, opening the window to air out the room. After that he focuses on his knuckles, painstakingly pulling out the splinters from the dresser before dousing the split skin in whiskey.

Just after he's changed into a clean undershirt and buckled his belt around his ragged green military pants, there is a knock on the door.

Antha lets herself in; she's wearing her Vault suit, and she has strapped herself into her leather armor without help. Her sniper rifle hangs from one shoulder, and the Magnum and her suppressed .10mm are holstered at her hips. Out in the hall her pack sits on the floor with the butt of her Minuteman laser rifle sticking out of the top.

In her arms she carries well over a dozen boxes of ammo from Kill or Be Killed - .308s, with several boxes of .44s and fusion cells, as well as a couple boxes of .10mm rounds.

"You'll have to take these," she says. "I'm loaded down, plus I'm carrying most of the first aid."

She sets the boxes on his bed and turns toward him, reaching up to push his disheveled hair back from his face before offering him a slow, gentle smile.

"Get dressed, okay?" She touches his cheek, once, briefly, then pulls her hand away. "Take as long as you need. I'll be waiting for you downstairs when you're ready to leave."

She walks out, closing the door behind herself, and MacCready sits down hard on the edge of the bed, stunned, struggling to swallow past the lump in his throat.

After a moment he leans forward on his knees, covering his face with his hands as tears of gratitude course down his cheeks.

_I didn't even have to ask._

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to be notified when I update this series, go [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/926016) and click 'the subscribe button!
> 
> You can find more about me [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/926016)!
> 
> Check my [Antha](https://saiyanshewolf.tumblr.com/tagged/my+sole+survivor) tag on tumblr for fanart ([Arya](https://saiyanshewolf.tumblr.com/tagged/my+lone+wanderer) and [Kieran](https://saiyanshewolf.tumblr.com/tagged/my+courier) are there too)!


End file.
